RaBB verse: Just Be There
by authoressnebula
Summary: After Through the Flames: Dean's almost 15, Sam's 10. Sam starts having headaches, leaving Dean a bit flustered, Sam a bit sore, and John explaining something about Mary.


_A/N: Dedicated to all who've had a Headache.  Yeah.  You know the type.  The one that deserves a capital H.  And yes, the technique that John shows Sam does work sometimes.  raises hand  Firm believer of it myself._

* * *

Things were cool, now that Dean was in high school. The schedule was awesome; he went to school after Sam, which meant he could drop the kid off, and then he got out of school before him, which meant he could pick him up. That meant less stress on Dad, and less stress on Dean, too.

And in all honesty, probably less stress on Sam, who was probably feeling smothered after the fire. They didn't mean to, they just...worried. But he seemed okay, for the most part. No really nasty nightmares, just the ordinary ones. Things were good.

So when Sam came home at around 2:40, by himself, ten minutes after Dean had gotten out of school himself, Dean did the mature thing and freaked out. "What's the matter?" he asked, standing so fast from the sofa that he was afraid he'd give himself whip-lash. Or a dizzy spell. Whatever.

"Nothing," Sam mumbled, and Dean got a closer look at him. He was moving slow, like he was hurting but didn't want to show it. He kept his head ducked low, but when Dean ducked his lower still, he could see Sam's face screwed up in pain. He looked pale in his cheeks, and his lips were barely pink.

Dean clenched his fists. "Did someone mess with you?" he asked angrily. Because if they had, they were going to hear from Dean, and get _very_ personal with his fists.

Sam shook his head, and his backpack slipped from his shoulder. He looked at it a minute, blinking in surprise, before he simply shook his head again. "I'm fine," he insisted, right before he wobbled into the sofa.

Dean caught his arms and carefully hauled him upright. "You sick?" he asked, peering under his brother's hair. If he kept growing it out, Dean'd never be able to see what was going on with his brother. "Talk to me, kiddo."

"It's nothing," Sam protested, but he didn't look at Dean when he said it. Kid couldn't lie worth crap.

"Sam, what's the matter? Level with me here."

Sam sighed, before wincing and reaching up to rub his forehead. "I just...have a headache," he admitted. "That's all. Bad enough that I couldn't focus in class, so I just left. But it's fine, I mean, I already know the stuff for the paper I need to do..."

It was Dean who winced this time. Students weren't allowed to leave without permission, and he was pretty sure they didn't grant it for headaches. If they'd known anything about Sam, though, like Dean did, they'd have let him go immediately. Sam didn't complain about pain. _Ever_. Which was why it was so imperative that Dean be able to see under his mop of hair to know when he was hurting. Stupid dork wouldn't say anything himself, and if the school had known that like Dean knew it, Sam wouldn't have had to walk home by himself with a _headache_. Dean would've been called to come and get him.

Of course, no one knew Sam as well as Dean did. Not even Dad.

"Bed," Dean instructed. Sam wearily nodded, which told Dean exactly how bad the headache was. He helped move Sam around the furniture, then into the small bedroom they shared. Sam fell onto his bed with a groan, pushing his head into his pillow as hard as he could. "I'll be right back," Dean promised, before heading for the bathroom. A cold cloth would help.

Sam's eyes were tightly closed, but Dean could see the muscles in his body relax when he laid the washcloth on his head. "Try and sleep if you can," Dean said quietly, before heading back out to the living room.

When the school called Dad to tell him that Sam had simply left...it wasn't going to be pretty. Dad was gonna be _pissed_. Hopefully with the school. Dad's worry tended to turn into anger, which Dean sort of understood. Hunter and marine, then a father. Anger was the easier route for the worry.

About half an hour later, Dad came bursting through the door, fury and fear in his eyes. "What the _hell_-" he started, before Dean shushed him.

"Sam's asleep with a really bad headache," Dean said fast. His dad stopped, then seemed to deflate. "He just walked home, the school never called me," Dean added.

"He's okay, though?" Dad asked, and Dean nodded.

"Fell asleep before I could get him any pain pills, so I figured I'd leave him be."

"Good boy," Dad murmured, before sinking into a chair. He let his hands cover his face as he groaned. "Why does that boy want to give me _more_ gray hairs?"

Dean smirked. "It's his job," he said, before pointing to his own head. "I figure I'll have all my hair white by the time I'm twenty-five if he keeps this up."

Dad chuckled behind his hands, before lowering them to gaze at Dean. "I've got to get back to Jacobs," he said. "If the school calls the house and not my cell this time...tell them Sam was feeling really sick and disoriented, didn't really even know what he was doing."

Dean nodded. "You boys set for dinner?"

Dean nodded again. "Frozen pizza; it's easy."

"Good," Dad said, before standing. "Don't give your brother a hard time."

When Dean simply greeted him with another smirk, his dad sighed and headed for the door, closing it behind him this time with less force. Dean stepped back over towards the bedroom and peeked inside. Sam was still asleep in his bed, his face smoothed from pain.

* * *

Sam stumbled inside, the backpack sliding down the floor. He barely got the door shut before he slid down to join it, curling up against the wall. His hands went straight to his head, clasping it as if he could make it stop pounding just by the strength of his hands. Maybe at least hold it all in.

"Sam? Sam, what's the matter? Dude, talk to me here."

Sam just kept clutching his head. Dean would figure it out, and if Sam talked right now, he was pretty certain he'd throw up. Which really wasn't cool, considering he was ten now.

"Another headache?"

Sam managed a nod, and felt the hammers slamming towards the front of his head now.

He heard Dean step away, but didn't raise his head to watch. If he just stayed still, if he just stayed curled up with his hands on his head, if he just didn't move, he'd be fine. The pain wasn't so bad, but he was terrified to move. God, the other headache a couple of weeks ago hadn't been this bad.

A moment later, Dean's footsteps were heard. "Here, take these," Dean said, and Sam glanced down at the hand in his vision. Two long green pills were there, and a glass of water was on the floor.

But that meant he'd have to move. He whimpered and turned away. No moving. No uncurling.

Dean sighed. "C'mon Sammy, please? It'll stop the headache, I swear."

Sam glanced back at the hand, then slowly, slowly, _slowly_ moved his hand down from his head. The pounding consumed him for a moment, and he felt momentarily disconnected from the world, like he was floating in the pain.

He briefly felt a hand take his, and felt the pills being placed in his palm. He carefully moved his hand to his mouth, breathing deeply for a moment, and closing his eyes. Then he opened his mouth slowly and let the pills fall in.

Before he could move his hand back down for the glass, it was at his lips, Dean's steady hand guiding it. He parted his lips and swallowed the water and pills down, wincing when it jarred his head. The glass was pulled away, and then hands were gently taking his shoulders. "Can you move?" Dean asked quietly.

For a response, Sam put his hand to the floor to push himself up. "Slow, Sammy, just take it slow. I gotcha," Dean murmured. True to his word, he pulled Sam up as slowly as he could. As soon as Sam was standing straight, though, the hammers turned to knives in his head, and the change was enough to make him slip to go straight back down.

Dean caught him around the chest and began moving him to the bedroom. "Almost there, I swear," he promised, and then Sam was being lowered into his bed. The pillow dulled the knives a bit, and closing his eyes helped stave off the nausea. He could feel Dean moving the blankets up around him, tucking him in.

The last thing he remembered before sleep finally claimed him was a cool hand on his brow.

* * *

John glanced back to see where his two sons were. The graveyard was riddled with short stones hidden in the grass; he knew because he'd already tripped twice himself.

They were both still going strong, but Sam looked a little slow. "Get a move on, boys," he told them, before stepping ahead. The grave was just around this bend, if he remembered right. Right near the willow tree.

"Dad?"

He turned back at Dean's voice, and found Sam stopped completely, fingers digging into his scalp. "What's the matter?" John asked, stepping back over to join them.

Dean was at Sam's side, looking worried. "I think it's another headache starting," Dean explained. "Dad, they're just getting worse, and they keep happening all the time, and there's nothing-"

"Dean, stop," John ordered, kneeling down beside them both. "You giving yourself a headache or making yourself sick isn't going to help anyone, least of all Sam." He turned his attention to his youngest. "Sam, I need you to listen to me, okay? Breathe in deep, but breathe in slow. Then exhale just as deeply and slowly."

Sam's hands stayed firmly where they were, but he did breathe in and out. "Good, you're doing just fine," John praised quietly. "Now, next inhale, breathe in up into where it hurts. Then when you breathe out, imagine the breath taking the headache out."

Dean was giving him a look that clearly said he thought John was off his rocker. Sam closed his eyes and breathed in deeply again, paused, then exhaled. "Just keep doing that, Sammy," he said, standing once more. "Dean, you stay with your brother. Keep him relaxed; don't let his muscles tense up. That's only going to make it worse."

Dean nodded, moving in even closer to Sam. He pulled his gun from his coat pocket as he did, and John gave him a nod of approval. It looked like he'd be digging alone tonight, but that was fine.

Of everything of Mary's, John had _really_ hoped Sam wouldn't inherit this.

Later that night, after the grave was dug and they were back at the house, with Sam finally asleep in his bed, Dean stepped behind John into the kitchen. "You need somethin', dude?" John finally asked him.

Dean fell into the chair and raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. What was that whole 'breathe out the pain' stuff? That doesn't sound very Marine." There was a small grin on his face as he said it, though, so John answered in kind.

"Sure it was. We learned all that stuff, along with how to burn lavender when we took our baths," he dead-panned, and Dean snickered. John shook his head and sighed. "No, that was actually something I learned from your mom."

Dean sobered instantly. "From Mom?"

John nodded. "She used to have headaches a lot. They'd usually pop after a long day of reading."

"But...Mom didn't have glasses," Dean said, confused.

"Too much reading can still make your head hurt," John told him. "And I'm betting that your brother's been reading a lot this week. He's got that report on an author coming up, right?"

Dean froze, then groaned. "As do you," John added, raising his eyebrow at his eldest. "Don't think I forgot about that."

"Crud," Dean muttered. He glanced back up at John, and John was surprised at the amount of concern in his features. "You think it's just reading too much? Knock off the books, and Sam'll be fine?" he asked.

John slowly regarded Dean, before sitting across from him at the table. "It probably is," he said softly. "They're just headaches, Dean."

"Yeah, but-" Dean started, before he crossed his arms and stared at the table-top. After a moment, he hissed out, "There's nothing I can do. If he has nightmares, I just wake him up. If he's got something on his tail, I shoot it. Even if people take him, we take him back, but _I can't do anything_, Dad. I need to do something," he pleaded.

His boys were very different people, for all the blood they shared. Sam was the bookworm; Dean hated reading anything he'd been told to read. Sam was the social fiend, making friends wherever he went; Dean was just as fine with one person sitting next to him as he was with ten. Sam was the one who reached out with his emotions to try and help people. Dean was the one who reached out with actions. He was a lot like John; give him a task, and he'd stick with it until it was finished.

"That's the unfortunate thing here," John said as gently as he could. "You _can't_ do anything to really help him, Dean. Not with this."

Dean looked just as happy with the information as John had thought he would. "That's crap," he said angrily. "There should be something I can do. Limit how much time he spends reading."

"And hurt your brother a different way by taking away one of the things he loves most," John pointed out. Dean cringed but said nothing. "The only thing you can really do, Dean, is be there. There's going to be more times like this where you can't do anything for your brother. He'll face his own fights, his own demons, one day. By himself."

"Not if I can help it," Dean said, determined.

"One day, though, it's going to happen, Dean. And when it does, the only thing you can really do is just be there. That'll help him more than you can possibly know. He looks up to you, depends on you. You're his big brother," John said simply. "And sometimes, that's more than enough for him."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, right," he said bitterly.

John leaned across the table on his elbows. "Both times that Sam's had a headache at school, where's he gone?"

It took a moment, but when Dean finally got it, his eyes widened. "Oh," was all he said.

"Oh," John repeated with a smile. "You good now?"

Dean paused, then nodded. "I think so," he said, before he frowned. "I don't have to like it, do I?"

"Hell no," John said, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't like it when your mom had 'em. You don't have to like it either."

"Good," Dean said with a firm nod. John simply watched him and waited.

A moment later, Dean stood from the table. "I'm gonna go check on Sam," he said. "Just in case."

John nodded, then let himself smile once Dean had his back turned. He'd talk to Sam tomorrow, tell him about his inherited headaches, and to take breaks when he read. Dean, he knew, would take care of the rest, and probably glare at him if John tried to instead.

For all their differences, his boys were the best together.


End file.
